


Bereft

by spirograph



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-30
Updated: 2005-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Cameron Mitchell had to pinpoint the exact moment he realized that he didn’t so much mind being held hostage by the Sodan, it was probably while lying sprawled flat on his back in the forest, surrounded by luminous greenery and the sound of Jolan’s rumbling laughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bereft

If Cameron Mitchell had to pinpoint the exact moment he realized that he didn’t so much mind being held hostage by the Sodan, it was probably while lying sprawled flat on his back in the forest, surrounded by luminous greenery and the sound of Jolan’s rumbling laughter.

Time passed in a blur, his new skills collecting like the grime beneath his fingernails, thick threads of new warrior knowledge weaving into his existing understanding. The wound at his side throbbed angrily in protest at every awkward angle Jolan insisted on twisting him into during training, each brutal jolt as he was sent hurtling backwards onto the solid earth. 

It wasn’t all that bad, apart from the unfortunate reality of his approaching demise at the hands of a warrior far more skilled in the art of killing than himself. And the unfortunate truth that it wouldn’t matter how many times he protested the Orii’s proposal, how many times he claimed them to be evil, the Sodan would never consider their tainted offers rationally. So he concentrated on persuading Jolan, on preparing for his allegedly gruesome death. 

Five days in, it rained. Belly full of foreign vegetables and sharp tasting tea, Cameron was forced to complete the forest course again. Sliding over muddy slopes with the wet, leafy branches of trees whipping him as he ran, Cameron felt his resolve breaking. It should have felt good, the cool rain sliding over his skin, but as he skidded to a halt at the end of the track he felt anything but. 

Jolan looked mildly surprised as the last of the sand fell from his makeshift timing device, clearly indicating Cameron had finished the assignment in time. Then Cameron collapsed, muscles stinging from the task, doubled over in breathless agony at the way cold raindops seeped through his clothing and into his wound. Jolan helped him up off the ground, gazing at Cameron as if he were in awe that a human had survived thus far. 

That day he stumbled back to his temporary home barely able to see through his exhaustion, hardly aware of his surroundings at all. Then there was Jolan, carefully tending to his wound and letting his fingers linger on the sensitive flesh, causing Cameron to flinch then relax into the soothing caress. Cameron figured there must have been some amount of trust between them on his part because he drifted into sleep with the damp feel of warm cloth brushing over his skin, the sound of rain pounding against the thatched rooftop. 

When he awoke it was dark, his sense of time completely out of sync without any kind of clock- they had confiscated all manner of technology he possessed on arrival- and it could have been late; perhaps it was early. The rain had eased, but he could make out the soft tapping of liquid as it dripped from the roof; Cameron held his breath and counted the droplets as they fell. 

The nights were the worst, bonelessly sinking further into the too-hard mattress, aching from the array of multi-toned bruises spread out under his skin, aching from the fatigue that his body couldn’t possibly sustain, with nothing to do but lay silent in the dark and contemplate his own mortality. 

Then Jolan was slipping through the door, shutting it behind him with a dull click, approaching Cameron’s bed and placing a clay bowl full of steaming hot soup down on the bedside table.

Jolan looked menacing in the flickering candle-light, even more so than when they trained; it left Cameron feeling uneasy, like he should be on his feet preparing to fight. Jolan stood stationary and looked at him expectantly. “Is this a test?” Cameron asked, because if it were he was sure to fail miserably; as it was he barely had the strength to lift his head off the pillow. 

“No,” Jolan replied simply. Inelegantly, Cameron hauled himself up into a sitting position, staring at the soup adoringly but not trusting himself to reach toward it. He could almost _feel_ Jolan grinning at him, mocking his discomfort. “You really are an evil man,” Cameron said weakly, forcing himself to maneuver around completely, bending down to lift a spoonful of soup to his lips. It tasted pretty horrible, but a damn sight better than the piss poor concoction Jolan passed off as tea. 

As he ate, Cameron became acutely aware of the shifting tension in the air within the small room, of their harsh breathing. He placed his spoon down, lifted his gaze to Jolan’s form just as he began to slowly drift forward- as if liquid- pushing Cameron back onto the bed. Protest formed at the back of Cameron’s throat as Jolan began to unfasten the belt around his waist, thick fingers deftly pulling at the leather strap with definite intent, but all objection was swallowed inside the impossibly deep intake of breath that followed. 

Jolan’s knees pressed dents into the mattress as he straddled Cameron’s hips, pressing his lips to exposed skin as he eased the rough fiber shirt off of Cameron’s shoulders, letting it land in a careless puddle on the floor. Cameron felt himself arching upward; felt himself becoming pliant under the other mans touch as he ran large, warm hands up over Camerons’s biceps, down over his chest, across his stomach. “Look, I’m not really sure what--” he managed to say, but Jolan placed his hand across Cameron’s mouth and whispered, “Be quiet.” 

Cameron could not have struggled even if he’d wanted to, the other man’s moist breath flowing over his highly sensitized flesh, involuntarily shivering at the hot-cold goosebumps that rose all over his body. 

When his brain finally caught up and managed to process the rapidly overwhelming sensations, Cameron wearily lifted his own arms and slipped his hands beneath Jolan’s shirt, felt battle-scarred skin beneath his fingertips. 

“This does not mean I trust you,” Jolan whispered, although Cameron had a feeling it sort of did. “Uh _huh_ ” seemed to suffice in lieu of a coherent reply as the other man made quick work of his trouser fastenings. 

Licking, biting and kissing him in all the right places, Jolan appeared as experienced in knowing how to bring pleasure as he was skilled in how to kill a man. Cameron knew first hand the parallel intimacy in both tasks, hips rising as Jolan tugged his pants a little way down his thighs. 

Then Jolan’s hand was wrapped firmly around Cameron’s cock, bringing him to climax gradually with a technique that contrasted starkly with the way in which he fought; stroking him in a sweet, unhurried way that had him feeling as if the world were melting away around him. Jolan’s lips lingered over the peak of a nipple, tongue gliding, swirling over the light sheen of sweat gathering on Cameron’s skin before Cameron had the presence of mind to guide Jolan upward, crushing their mouths together, wetly tonguing his apologies against the roof of the other man’s mouth; _I’m sorry for the life I took_ , he said, _please believe me._

He tried to hold on, tried to make it last- gasping and thrusting against Jolan’s body, scratch of stubble against his cheek, calloused fingers tightening their grip on his dick – but it was too much, and he trembled, cursed loudly into the crook of Jolan’s neck as he came. 

Then Jolan was shifting away from him, leaving Cameron bereft of comforting warmth. “Finish your soup, then sleep,” he said, gathering Cameron’s discarded shirt up off the floor and laying it on the back of nearby chair. At the doorway Jolan stopped, turning back toward the bed and said as if by way of explanation: “It will be a shame to watch you die.” 

Cameron stayed silent, nodding vaguely at the ceiling as the door snapped shut.


End file.
